


and there's a hole in my chest, like there's a hole in the sun

by nicotinedaydream



Series: this darkness is the light [1]
Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016), The Lost Boys (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Billy finds The Lost Boys, M/M, Vampires
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-24
Updated: 2020-04-24
Packaged: 2021-03-02 05:20:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23819785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nicotinedaydream/pseuds/nicotinedaydream
Summary: Billy leaves Hawkins for California after surviving the Mind Flayer and finds Santa Carla instead.
Relationships: Billy Hargrove/Steve Harrington (implied), David (Lost Boys)/Billy Hargrove, David/Michael Emerson (Lost Boys)
Series: this darkness is the light [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1716271
Comments: 7
Kudos: 51





	and there's a hole in my chest, like there's a hole in the sun

**Author's Note:**

> This came about from a post on tumblr from thatpunkmaximoff who had this really good idea of Billy coming to Santa Carla after the Mind Flayer and gravitating toward the boys. I love that idea and thought why not give it a go. 
> 
> This will be a series rather than a long chaptered fic. There'll be time jumps for future fics in the series where Steve will make an appearance. I just wanted to post this introduction fic as it has been sitting around for a while collecting dust.

_**HORROR STRIKES 4TH OF JULY CELEBRATIONS. STARCOURT MALL CLOSED FOR BUSINESS. TOWN IS IN MOURNING. POSSIBLE GOVERNMENT CONSPIRACY?** _

Newspaper article headlines would embrace these words for days, hell, _weeks_ after the Mind Flayer debacle. Stranger things were said to have happened in the small town of Hawkins over the years, but the talk of the people was the battle of Starcourt for those following weeks.

Billy Hargrove just wants to forget.

After being possessed and nearly straight up sucker-punched to death by the thing that had destroyed Starcourt mall and had turned townspeople into liquid waste, not a single decomposed body left to even bury, Billy decides what he needs is to see this fucking place behind him.

One late Thursday evening when his asshole father isn't there, because Maxine and her mother seem to have dragged him out of the house to this sci-fi film at the cinemas, of all reasons, he packs a small duffle bag and leaves the shitty town of Hawkins in his rearview mirror.

Billy drives and drives and drives, drives until he's so goddamn tired he has to pull over onto the side of the road before he either rear ends another vehicle or runs over some hapless moron. Steve Harrington comes to mind at the second one, the annoying little ( _handsome piece of shit_ ) reason why he'd had to get his baby repaired at the shop, and oh if that unfortunate image doesn't fail to leave him chuckling himself into sleep.

He dreams of beaches, blinding rays of sunshine, velvet warm sand grinding under the bare soles of his feet, the pressure of a harsh cold wave rolling off his back; _wild winds and glittering stars and an endless dark night, violent laughter and howling cries and dying screams, the taste of salt and brine and the feeling of intoxicating numbness_.

Billy wakes up drenched in sweat, the throb of his heartbeat roaring in his eardrums like the California surf. The Camaro's clock glows green and vivid, a set of numbers in the semi-darkness of the car. 2:57 A.M. He looks around, bleary-eyed and still coming down from whatever it was he had dreamt, to notice he's out in the middle of nowhere and there's no signs. Great.

"You're kidding," he mutters, searching around in his jacket pockets for his pack of cigarettes and a lighter. His fingers find them both empty. "You are _fucking_ kidding me!"

Billy slams his fist against the dashboard, pretty much only manages to split two of his knuckles in the process. He curses a few times, stretching his fingers out, feeling the pull of bruised tendons and hissing at the unpleasant sting. Nothing he's not used to though.

"Come on. Get it together, man. Fucking, _get it together_ ," he says, reminding himself to breathe, just breathe, like that stupid bitch nurse told him when he woke up in Hawkins hospital with stitches sewn into his gut and a lurching headache and a tube down his fucking throat.

_Breathe._

Billy closes his eyes, counts to ten, and attempts to focus on breathing. It's not easy, but it's something he's had good practice at considering the three long and insufferable weeks he spent lying on a hospital bed hooked up to an IV line while he was in recovery.

Once he has his breath back, Billy decides to simply pick a direction and hope he doesn't end up driving off a cliff.

Many long, dreary hours later there's a sign in the far distance. Billy squints into the dimming light of dawn, but his jaded eyes can't read the writing. When he's closer, his disorientated mind is able to pick apart the letters. Miraculously, in his state, they form a sentence.

**_Welcome to Santa Carla._ **

"Wha…?" Billy yawns, his hand slowly slipping off the wheel. He fumbles his foot onto the break, wincing as the car jerks to a stop, his eyes now in perfect view of the wooden backing of the sign. Another sentence.

**_Murder Capital of the world._ **

Billy reads it more than once, still groggy and barely coherent, but snorts when the words start to make sense. 

"Not even _close_ ," he giggles, thinks about Hawkins, that fucking shithole town and its unnatural occurrences and all he's left behind, what he's going to do now he's alive, _free_. Billy's aware he sounds drunk and high at the same time. He feels it, too. Fuck, he needs to sleep. It's not his hometown but it'll have to do for the time being.

"Santa whatever, here I come," he mutters.

Billy slides his sunglasses down over his eyes, begins to drive past the sign, unknowingly into yet another Hawkins—and another nightmare.

***

Santa Carla is a dump. Billy discovers this in the first five minutes. Everybody on the street either looks like they're a meth head or a serial killer, or _both_. Makes sense, murder capital of the world and all.

Billy books himself into a cheap motel, asking for one night's stay, just enough for a short necessary rest. He pretends to ignore the woman across the counter checking him out. Flashbacks resurface of Mrs Wheeler and her tight bikini, her flirty doe-innocent eyes; predator nature hidden by the woman's effete charm. He'd soaked it up, even _liked_ it, before realising what an idiot he was trying to bang somebody's trophy wife. Nancy Wheeler's mother. Fuck that.

What was it that he had told Harrington? _Plenty of bitches in the sea._

"Thanks, sweetheart," he says, smiling with all teeth, and making sure to throw in a wink he knows will get the old hag to leave him be. He feels her eyes on his behind as he walks away, swallows his disgust as he climbs the stairwell to the upper rooms, finds his door rather easily and unlocks it.

The motel room is not worth the price, but it's all he can afford. Billy wrinkles his nose at the stained carpet and hideous, peeling brown wallpaper, throwing his duffle bag on the bed and flopping his body down beside it. He's asleep in seconds.

Billy dreams again.

He dreams of his father towering over him, ranting and raving, lips bared in a seething rage, flecks of saliva wet on his cheek as he is shouted at, berated and punched until he's a bleeding and cowering mess; _some stranger dressed in black standing above him, face obscured by shadow, blond hair and volcanic golden eyes and glistening white too-sharp teeth and a voice rumbling like the purr of a motorcycle engine._

_" **Billy**."_

Billy jolts awake, gasping. He is aware that he's having a panic attack, tries to steady his breathing, count to ten, count to ten, count, count, fucking _count_ , but it's not working. He's suffocating. He's suffocating, and it feels like the crushing weight on his chest when attacked by that Mind Flayer thing back in Hawkins, when it was hitting him again and again and _again_ , and that's it, that's fucking _it,_ Billy is going to die, he's really going to _die_ this time, he's—

Billy breathes in a fast mouthful of air and chokes on it, then coughs, rough and spent. His next following breaths are normal, if a bit faint and shaky, but he's _breathing_. He lies there and focuses on reminding himself that.

_I'm fine. I'm okay. Fuck, I'm alive._

Billy leaves the motel an hour later, not wanting to stay in the place if he doesn't have to. He's also pretty sure it has bed bugs, so yeah, that's gross as hell.

Santa Carla is a surprisingly beautiful place to be in once night falls and the humidity drops. At first glance, it is a drab-looking small beach town, but right now, for Billy, everything he sees is momentarily disarming, from the never-ending stretch of boardwalk filled with locals and tourists, to the loud rush of carnival rides and booming bass from a live concert. The strangest sight Billy sees, however, is of guys holding hands. It is extremely odd, no, _batshit insane_ , how nobody is batting an eye at it—or if they are, the couples in question don't seem to be bothered.

Neil would fucking _flip_ , that's for sure.

Billy's eyes linger on one couple, a brunette and blond, both leant against a railing near four motorcycles; not holding hands, but too close to be friends. He quickly glances away when the curly-haired boy raises an eyebrow, as if to say, _"Yeah, man, we're together. What's it to you?"_

Billy swears he sees the blond whisper something in the brunette's ear and nod at him which causes the guy to roll his eyes and smirk, but he's unsure because when he looks toward them again they're both staring elsewhere.

 _Forget it_ , Billy thinks, shrugging. What does he care anyways. None of his damn business. He's about to head on his way, back to where he parked his Camaro (were no parking spaces at the motel, _gee, wonder why_ , and he was never planning to leave his baby all alone in a random town for too long in the first place), when somebody stumbles into him.

"Watch where you're going," he hisses, the lick of venom in his words built from years of abuse and learned self-protection.

The punk teenager in question, dressed in clothes Billy can only describe as a party hard rockstar look, grins and thumps him on the shoulder. "No problem, dude!" he shouts, definitely too loud and carefree for someone who just 'accidentally' walked into Billy fucking Hargrove.

Billy laughs, then, the low huff something which would have caused many losers in Hawkins to take several steps back before running for their lives.

This guy? Not a chance, it seems.

"Seriously," he says, calm before the storm, waiting for the guy to realise he's made a huge mistake. Instead, the guy laughs _back_. It's a lack of insight, almost foolishness, really, which has Billy dumbfounded.

"Are you high right now?" Billy growls, fists tense at his sides, itching to pummel and _hurt_ ; to spill some blood, get fucking messy with it. Use violence the only way he knows how.

The guy tosses his wild mane of hair behind him in what looks like enthusiasm, stupidly impervious to Billy's threat. "Hell yeah!" he yells.

Billy has never wanted to knock a person out so badly in his entire life.

"Well, well, well. What have we got here?"

Billy turns at the voice, about to throw insults at whoever had spoken, rendered speechless once he sees who it is.

It's the blond guy from the railing, the one who'd whispered in that brunette's ear and had caught his attention earlier. Brunette is beside him, too, though he seems wary of Billy now. _Good_ , the self-righteous part in Billy's brain drawls.

The guy laughs again, a lopsided grin on his lips. "Dunno, just bumped into him! But he's _grumpy_." He pitches his voice down at the end, a quiet whisper, and cackles when Billy's nostrils flare.

"I'm not grumpy, asshole," he snaps. This causes blond guy to smirk. It feels like a silent taunt.

 _Fucking jesus christ, are they for real?_ Billy thinks.

"You shouldn't take Paul too seriously," the brunette says, and it's said so smooth in contrast to his guarded posture that Billy just nods in response.

"Right," he spits, rolling his eyes. "Look, your friend's a brainless idiot. Should be kept on a leash."

"Oh, I bite," Paul snickers. Whatever it is he's said must be an inside joke because the brunette and blond share a quick, amused glance.

Billy is _done_.

"Yeah, I'm sure you do, amigo." He nearly manages to leave these nut jobs to their own devices, when a hand stops him from moving.

Billy looks down at the hand on him, pressed firm over the material of his leather jacket, fingertips brushing against the column of his throat.

"Get your hands off me," he warns, his voice soft, but his tone dangerous. Blond guy either doesn't hear, or doesn't care to listen. "I said, _get your fucking hands off me_!"

Billy isn't prepared for the hand to push him away, and he lands flat on his ass. He blinks up at the guy, about to snarl and lash out, but before he can it's like the atmosphere around him shifts; everything feels _wrong_. It feels like the Upside Down all over again, but, no, this is different.

Blond guy is gone and in his place is the same stranger from Billy's dream, their eyes incandescent, pools of fiery brimstone. But this time they've got a face, a face so monstrous it could be out of some cheesy horror movie. Billy splutters, cursing, his panic only increasing further when he notices that Paul and the brunette guy now have identical faces as that… that _thing_.

Billy isn't aware he's running in the opposite direction of his car until he finds himself sprinting onto the beach, sand causing him to lose his footing and stale ocean air burning his lungs. He collapses to the ground, panting, shaking, forces a heaving wrack of dry sobs free from his chest.

 _Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. FUCK! W-What the hell?_ he thinks in a flurry of loose, liquid limbs and sharp, harried breaths.

"Whoa, _dude_ , what's up with you?"

Billy looks up to see a group of guys surrounding him. They all smell of alcohol, a hint of weed, and the one who'd spoken is staring at him with a weird expression in his glazed eyes. Billy coughs, wheezing, but is instantly alert. He's in no state to be getting into a fist fight, especially with a group of surfer rejects whose drug-addled minds would turn them into a pack of savage animals if rubbed the wrong way. Californian beaches taught him that much.

"No worries, man, uh, I was just about to leave," he says, voice cracking from stain. He picks himself up, trying to regain some balance, but stumbles and nearly falls face-first in the sand. The group of surfers all make a noise of sympathy. Wait. They probably think he's had too much to drink. Might be a good idea to go with that. "Real wasted tonight, ya know?"

Another of the guys chuckles, pupils dilated, hazy euphoria swimming in his brown eyes. "You don't need to leave, dude. Come party with us. Got some hot chicks ready to fuck down there." He smirks, pointing behind him.

Billy glances in the direction surfer guy is leering. True enough, there's a small group of girls sprawled on the sand, giggling to themselves as they share conversation. Yeah, they're pretty hot. Immodestly dressed, too. Just the way he likes it. He shrugs.

"Sure. Why not."

Billy's got nowhere else to be, not really, and if it keeps him far away from those three freaks on the boardwalk then all the better. His Camaro can wait for a little while longer. No problemo.

***

The surfer guys are, now this is shocking, not bad party hosts. Billy ends up talking shit with them for hours, tossing back one beer after another, and hitting on what's her name. Laura. Lauren. Laurie. Right? No? Whatever. She's got some nice tits.

Billy's nearly through his fifth beer when one of the guys asks him, "So Billy, where you from, man? Haven't seen you around here before."

"Yes! You're so hot. I would totally like remember you if I had," maybe-Lauren gushes. Billy won't pretend his dick doesn't slightly twitch at the praise, intoxication be damned. 

Billy shakes his head, laughing as he steals the joint from between her fingers. He inhales, lets the weed flow down his throat, before huffing out a plume of smoke in her face. She coughs and gags, but the glare she gives him is half-hearted.

"Asshole!" she yells, slapping his arm. Her friends are smirking; the surfer guys, more so. Impressed by the king's lady skills. Classic move.

"Aw, sorry, sweetheart, you want me to kiss it better?" he teases, puckering his lips, leaning forward. Her eyes widen and she squeals, pushing him away. "What, you scared?"

"Hey, come on, she's not into it," the surfer guy comments. He sounds amused, though, and Billy turns to see him grinning.

"You think so?" Billy leans forward again, testing his boundaries, even if he shouldn't. Maybe-Lauren pushes him harder this time.

"Not when I'm drunk," she giggles, like that's a reasonable excuse. Billy gives her his most coy, charming smile.

"Hey, hey, I ain't gonna hurt ya, baby," he says, trying to sound mellifluous and soothing. It doesn't seem to work, however, because when he tries to slide his hand up her skirt she punches him square in the nose.

" _Stop it_ , Billy!" she cries. "You're not funny!"

Billy swears, clutching his face. His nose is bleeding, can taste it as he licks a wet drop that lands on his lips. It's bitter, but also sweet. Fucking sweet. Carnally so.

"You good, dude?" surfer guy asks, nudging him. Billy doesn't know why, but between the blood on his tongue and the beer in his system, the action has him feeling backed into a corner; not unlike memories of his father and those late-night arguments, where he's all alone in the house and about to be battered halfway to hell for something stupid like playing his music a little too loud.

"I'm sorry. Dad. I didn't mean it. Please. Sir, I didn't meant it. I'm sorry!" He flinches, closing his eyes, waiting for the first hit, for that sting in his jaw and ache in his teeth. Instead, he feels nothing. Everything is silent.

Billy opens his eyes, slow, heedful of the fact he might be hit anyway, but it’s only to see the group of surfers and girls looking at him like there is something wrong with him.

"What the _fuck_?" one of the girls murmurs, giggling.

Billy usually might not care about a girl laughing at him, but this is personal, and drunk Billy is _definitely_ not about that shit.

"Oh, so _now_ you bitches think I'm funny?" he says, too much alcohol coating his voice, turning it throaty and hoarse. The girl's giggles stop, eyes widening and face paling in the glow of orange bonfire flames. "Come on. Say it again. _l fucking dare you_!"

"Hey, whoa, whoa, _whoa,_ Billy, man, it's cool," surfer guy intervenes, attempting to settle him with a hand on his arm.

Big mistake.

" _Don't fucking touch me_!" Billy turns toward the guy, fists ready. Judging by the expression on surfer guy's face, his own must be pretty scary right now.

"L-Look, uh, Billy, calm down, okay. She's just some dumb chick, knows nothin' about you and your old man, y-y-yeah?"

Billy snorts, the sound like a raging bull. "No fuckin' clue," he hisses. He makes sure he's glaring at her when he says it, and her pale complexion wanes even further.

"Say you're sorry, oh my god, just say you're sorry," her friend whispers, alarmed.

"I'm s-sorry." She sounds like she's begging, the whore, not _apologising_.

"Like you fucking mean it, huh?" he growls as he grabs her, his fingers rough and bruising on the soft, pale flesh of her forearm.

"I—I'm s-s-sorry!" she sobs, her voice trembling in both pain and fear.

Billy doesn't understand, how hard is it to apologise and fucking _mean it_. He's almost going to teach her a lesson, when someone interjects with a mild hint of advice.

"Pretty sure she said she was sorry, dude."

"Yeah, I'm sure she fucking di—" Billy pauses, drunk mind putting a name to the face he's staring at. His eyes narrow. "Get lost, freak show."

Paul isn't grinning this time, his mouth a scowl, his arms crossed. "Think the little lady told ya that she's sorry, hey," he says, unbothered by Billy's name-calling.

Billy chuckles. He can't believe this little shit. "Whatever. S'none of your business, amigo," he sneers.

"Actually, you'll find that everything in this town is our business, _amigo_."

Billy's liquid courage diminishes once he sees who else has added to the conversation.

Blond hair. Blue ( _volcanic_ _golden_ ) eyes. White flash of ( _glistening too-sharp_ ) teeth.

"Oh, fuuuuuck!" one of the surfer guys yelps. It's a pure squawk of terror if he's ever heard one.

Billy runs again, away from the bonfire and its inhabitants soon to become monster chow. He stumbles across the sand, tripping over himself as he tries to blank out what he imagines is the startup of their loud cries, to push the sounds of ripping and tearing and snarling from his conscience. Maybe it's all in his head, just another dream ( _nightmare_ ).

God, he fucking hopes so.

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know what you guys think please! And if you want, come chat to me on my tumblr: staticwavin


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